to everything (there is a season)
by Beloved of Apollo
Summary: After his divorce, Killian ditches the big city for a little house in the suburbs. But little does he know, his new home is far from unoccupied. His new roommate is shy, to say to the least, and most definitely not of this world. Over the course of a year, he gets to know his Swan, who teaches him about life and love in the most unlikely way.


I dedicate this not-Christmas story to 4getfulimaginator, who inspired me to finish this story and kept me honest. Please, check out her stories. She writes really great smut. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Winter<strong>

The house he bought after he divorced Milah was as cookie-cutter as they came - a single story ranch style, with vinyl siding in an ugly shade of avocado and a concrete porch. His realtor assured him it was less than twenty years old, entirely up to code, and recently remodeled inside. Recently remodeled in muted shades of beige – _so much beige _– but remodeled nonetheless. Killian wanted the normality of the green single story building, the anonymity of living in a homogenized suburb. His marriage to Milah had been quite the urban affair – downtown apartments and taxis to work – and when it ended, so did that part of his life.

He still had his dreams – the small sailboat moored wherever the winds took him, the coziness of a murphy bed and someone to warm it. They were just on hold until he figured things out.

For now, it was the charmless neighborhood of Oakmont Glen, with its tidy rows of starter homes and neatly manicured lawns.

He moved in on the first of December. Winter wouldn't officially start until the 22nd, but it was Massachusetts – winter started just after baseball season ended in October (especially considering their home team's abysmal season). Already there was snow on the ground, but it was three weeks old and mottled with dirt, slurry and the last leaves from autumn.

"You can hire someone to salt your driveway," his realtor, Kathryn, explained to him as she opens the front door. "I already have some salt in the garage though. As a housewarming gift."

Killian stepped through the door, sleet and bits of rock salt crunching under his boots as he shuffled into the front foyer. With no lights on, the dark space looked and felt eerie, and he frowned at the odd feeling of foreboding that clutched at his throat.

"Thanks for that," he replied softly, peering through the gloomy space. "But I think I'll get some neighborhood kid to take care of it. It's close to Christmas – there's bound to be some poor lad strapped for cash who'll cater to my every whim."

Smiling at his joke, Kathryn sauntered over to the thermostat with more swish than strictly necessary. All of the paperwork that crossed her desk listed him as unmarried, and she'd spent the better part of the moving process testing those waters.

"Well, if you can't find anyone," she began rather breathily, "I'll give you my number. I'm sure we can work something out."

He awkwardly nodded and shifted the cardboard box in his arms. "I have at least three copies of your business card, all of your emails, and your information saved in my phone. I know your number better than I know my own."

Kathryn adjusted the heater to what felt like broil and tightened the scarf around her throat. "I'll leave you to it then. Call me sometime."

Everything within him wanted to say absolutely not, but instead he nodded mutely and held the box closer to his chest as she moved past. As the door closed, he couldn't help but sign in relief. Kathryn was nice and pretty enough, but bottle blondes weren't and never would be his style.

Padding into the living room, Killian dumped the box on the carpet and wove through similar packages. He stepped around couches and ottomans to get to the kitchen, in which he'd unpacked his coffee pot and mismatched mugs. He smiled at the odd collection he'd amassed over the years. Polish pottery, thrift store finds, his favorite Dr. Who cup… in pieces on the floor.

Killian frowned unhappily and knelt down next to the pile of porcelain. He ran his fingers over the handle, snapped cleanly from the rest of the mug, which hadn't exactly shattered. There weren't splintery shards bung all over the place, but maybe three or four pieces. If he had the inclination, he could probably glue it back together. Or if he had glue.

"Sorry Eccleston," he murmured as he gathered up the chips in his hands. "Afraid you were only a good for a single season – to the rubbish bin with you. Though I don't remember putting you so close to the edge."

And he hadn't, but there was no use in crying over spilled milk, not when the ninth doctor could be replaced with a simple trip to Amazon. Once he sat up his wireless router, though the last thing he wanted to do before Christmas was deal with the cable company.

How odd though. All of the other mugs were stacked neatly in the center of the table, too far from the edge to fall over on their own. But it had been a stressful day, and he could barely remember his own name after dealing with moving companies, plumbers and electricians. Perhaps he'd knocked poor Dr. Who with his elbow.

"Easy come, easy go," he said to himself as he disposed of the Doctor's remains in the garbage can. "It's just one mug."

(break)

Two more mugs broke in the next week, both into the clean, smooth shards of the Dr. Who cup, when they should've shattered to smithereens. Worse, these had been stashed in the cupboard.

"Blast it all to hell," Killian groused as he swept bits of red clay and glazed ceramic into the dustpan. "I have the luck of a black cat underneath a ladder."

New houses had all sorts of problems, his friends and family informed him, but vomiting cabinets never made that list. Neither did random pockets of frigid air, nor lamps that turned on and off on their own. Even if he did buy them from Ikea.

Dust pan emptied into the trash, he marched over to the cabinets, pulling open the walnut panels. They swung freely about on well-oiled hinges and stayed closed when he slammed them shut. Opening them again revealed level, sturdy shelves weighted with his grandmother's china, melamine glasses and what remained of his coffee mugs. He closed the cupboard with a huff and tightened the wool scarf knotted around his neck. The whole house was freezing, despite the fire roaring away in the hearth.

From the corner of his eye, he saw something dim and then glow again. "Damn lamp," he muttered under his breath and he stomped back into the living room. True to form, the lightbulb flickered worryingly.

Killian gaped at the lamp, mouth wide open in disbelief.

"Bloody hell, will nothing work in this place?"

The lamp fizzled out and went black.

"I need a drink."

* * *

><p>The Christmas spirit never entered his house, as he never celebrated the holiday. What with a Jewish mother and agnostic father. But this year, the smell of the season did. He came home one night from work to a kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon. That was three ago, and it still clung to every surface, no matter how hard he scrubbed at the floors and counters.<p>

"It has to be the neighbors," he complained as he spritzed his couch with fabric refresher. Why the neighbors would be on a cookie-baking marathon for seventy-two hours was beyond him. He'd yet to meet the buggers, but now he had no reason to. Killian was pretty sure _Supernatural_ featured a Christmas episode starring murderous, cookie-baking gods. He wasn't a superstitious man, but no one baked that many cookies without expecting an arm and leg in return.

His sectional sofa soaked in Febreeze, he brought the bottle to the kitchen and chucked it beneath the sink. The white tiles were frigid beneath his bare feet, as usual, and when he ran his fingers over the golden-green granite counters, they were cold too.

At first the whole house was an igloo, but now, two weeks later, the chill limited itself to single, migratory pockets. Sometimes the cold spots moved randomly, but they definitely preferred certain areas above all others. The kitchen never warmed up, at least while he was in there, and the bench in his shower was a block of ice. When he sat down on his couch to watch a movie, the seat next to him always dropped at least ten degrees Fahrenheit – he was a Yank now. Might as well start using backwards, Yank measurements.

Opening the cupboards and drawers to ensure that all his kitchen wares remained intact, Killian tried to blink away the heavy feeling in his lids. All this cold air, wonky wiring and broken glass seemed to sap away his energy. Ever since moving to the suburbs, he'd been constantly tuckered out. This damn toasted of a house, with all its problems, drained him of all energy. He'd always been an active sort of guy. He cycled, swam and went at the gym to counter his beer and Nigella Lawson addiction, but ever since leaving Boston, he hadn't exercised once. Hadn't really cooked either, and he _loved_ cooking. He was a food critic, for Pete's sake. Cooking was his therapy.

"Alright house," he announced loudly as he slammed the last drawer shut. "I bought you. I take excellent care of you. Stop being such a bloody, fucking prick." As an afterthought, he whispered a quiet _please_.

The house said nothing, and he couldn't help but laugh at his own silliness.

But little did he know, as he moved into the living room to watch _Forever Summer_, the thermometer on the thermostat went up by a full three degrees.

* * *

><p>It was the second week of December, and the writers at <em>Modern Epicurean<em> were busier than Santa's elves. Where the December issue of the printed magazine looked back on the year's trends, the online blogs celebrated the sensual pleasures of Christmas. Ruby reviewed red and green gowns of silk velvet, Will scouted out the most festive parties in the Northeast, and the editors tasked Killian with preparing and sharing the Christmas recipes from his childhood.

Of which he had none.

What he did have was his mother's old cookery jotters, several of which contained notes on the comfort food she served come winter. Close enough.

"Crack two eggs into eight teapoons melted schmaltz," Killian read aloud from his seat at the table. "Beat mixture until golden and fluffy, then add in one ladle of chicken stock followed by 250 grams of medium-ground matzo meal."

It was his first opportunity to sit all day. First he had to mise-en-place all his ingredients, then he had to photograph them, which was easier said than done. What looked tasty on a counter often looked foul on camera, so instead of rough-cutting like a home cook, he peeled and chopped his aromatic vegetable into neat chunks – which made no sense for matzo ball soup, considering the finished product consisted of clear broth and dumplings (which were already chilling in the fridge).

Still, he took comfort in the familiarity of it all. The rolling motion of the chef's knife cutting through sweet onions and celery ribs felt as natural and ancient as the rolling tide. On the ocean, he felt closest to his seafaring father and brother, but in the kitchen, he felt closest to his mother. All of his memories of her seemed to feature preparing and eating food.

But now, seated at his kitchen table with his stock boiling on the burner, he'd never felt more far away from her. Especially considering Regina's insistence that he listen to classic Christmas carols. _Get into the Christmas spirit_, the magazine's owner and editor-in-chief told him that morning, _or else_.

"Mix the matzo meal until a thick paste appears, and then roast Regina on an open fire," he groused as the Josh Groban version of _The Christmas Song_ came on his iPhone. Lacking his own stash of Christmas music, he relied on Spotify to warm his icy heart. Needless to say, it wasn't working. "Ugh, Josh Groban can suck a sugar plum."

Ignoring the insipid lyrics, Killian turned his eyes to his mother's handwritten instructions. His fingers traced the elegantly looped letters, careful not to smudge the blue ink. Leftover grease from boiler chickens past slicked over his skin. For the life of him, he couldn't remember if he'd ever prepared this meal for Milah, and _Jesus Christ on a cracker_, this music had to go.

"That's it." He snapped the notebook closed and got to his feet. "Sorry Josh, but you can shove a Yule log straight up your -"

At that moment, when all hope seemed lost, the station changed. Josh Groban was cut off mid-sentence in favor of some soft, mellow rock song he remembered but couldn't place. _The Christmas Song_ was just… gone, replaced by something tolerable, if not enjoyable.

Thick brows furrowed, he marched over to the iHome and crouched down in front of the screen. Spotify was still running, but it wasn't on any playlist he'd ever created. Somehow, his iPhone had flipped to a single song.

_Vincent_, by Don McClean.

Killian picked up the sleek, silver smartphone and cradled it in his hands, gaping at it in confusion as the music turned off. Christmas music had been playing all night, but as soon as he verbally complained, it changed playlists; and while _Vincent_ wasn't his favorite song, it sure as shit beat Christmas music.

Perhaps someone was looking out for him, Killian pondered as he put the iPhone back on its stand. The second verse had just started, and his timer on the chicken stock was about to go off. Chalking it up to a Christmas miracle, he listened to the soothing story of Starry Night, and turned off the burner.

Underneath the rendered fat and softened vegetables, he could smell cinnamon and vanilla.

* * *

><p>"Your house is haunted," Liam informed him smartly.<p>

Killian laughed pleasantly and tightened the apron around his waist.

"It's not haunted, it's just defective."

Liam harrumphed and started groping through drawers, looking for a corkscrew. Christmas was a week away, so the merchant marine was on holiday. Killian had picked him up earlier that afternoon from Logan and on the way back explained his woes as a homeowner.

"Cold spots, broken dishes, lights that don't turn off, and the music changing when you grew tired of that Christmas drivel? My boy, your house is haunted, and it's an intelligent haunting."

"Intelligent, hmm?" Killian replied as pulled a bottle of champagne from the fridge. Liam glared as he realized no corkscrew would be needed. "And what makes a haunted house smart or dumb?"

"It's not the house that's intelligent, it's the ghost. Some ghosts are just memories stuck on a loop." Liam shot Killian a knowing look as he went hunting for champagne flutes. "They go through the same actions over and over again, unable to respond to external stimuli. Then there's intelligent hauntings. They're like people without the bodies. Now what're we celebrating?"

"Sure they do, mate, and the Easter Bunny hides the eggs so no one will know he's fucking the chicken. And we're not celebrating anything. Regina gave all of her writers a bottle of Veuve Clicquot each instead of thoughtful Christmas gifts."

Liam chuckled and pulled down two glasses from the cupboard above the fridge. "She's all right in my book."

Sunday evenings called for Sunday roasts, and no Sunday roast was complete without Yorkshire pudding, so while Liam poured them each a glass of the French bubbly, Killian prepared the batter. They hadn't eaten Sunday dinner together in ages, so Killian took his time with the meal, pouring in all the love their Mum would've. Liam, for his part, stayed out of the way. His skills as a navigator were second to none, but he couldn't cook for shit.

"You should cook for a cruise or some private yacht," Liam quipped as he handed Killian some champagne. "Combine the best of both worlds."

"Shut your filthy mouth. The only position I'll hold on a boat is captain, thank you very much."

"And the only thing you'll captain is this haunted house, prat."

They ate dinner in relative silence, too full and sated to do much but bask in the comfort of a homemade meal. Liam teased him about his ghost, coaxing more and more details about the odd happenings.

"If there is a ghost," Liam slurred loudly as he finished off his third glass of scotch. They'd polished off dinner and the champagne more than an hour ago. "Then he's a chicken shit. If he had half a pair, he'd show himself to you."

Killian swirled his coffee with a piece of biscotti. "I'm telling you, there's no ghost. There's just a house that doesn't work and neighbors who bake too often. Honestly, what ghost smells like cookies? Shouldn't they smell like fire and brimstone?"

"That's demons, little brother, and be thankful you don't have one of those?"

Killian grinned at his brother's idiocy and topped off the other man's tumbler with eighteen-year-old Macallan's. "If there's one thing I don't miss about sailing, it's the silly superstitions."

"I don't have superstitions, Killian. I have routines."

When the scotch dried up, they said their goodnights and stumbled off to bed. As he curled up beneath flannel sheets, Killian thanked his 'ghost' for taking the night off. For once, the house was warm and smelled nothing like snickerdoodles. Liam's silly insistence that the place was haunted only confirmed Killian's belief that it was anything but. Ghosts haunted grand Victorian manors and gothic mansions, not model homes in young neighborhoods.

If anything, he was probably haunted by a shoddy house inspection and piss-poor building materials. Kathryn never mentioned anyone dying in the house, and surely she would've brought that up during her numerous flirtations (after seven years of marriage, two of them good, he wasn't sure how people flirted anymore).

His mind muddled with scotch, champagne and red meat, Killian set his alarm clock, dimmed the display, and drifted off to sleep with not a worry in the world.

In the kitchen, _Vincent_ began to play on his iPhone, forgotten on the kitchen counter.

* * *

><p>Killian's slept deeply that night. At least he did until sunrise, when Liam woke up with shouting and swearing.<p>

Shooting up cartoonishly fast, Killian blinked through a hellish hangover and flung back the navy coverlet. He shivered at the blast of cold air but ran into the kitchen nonetheless, which was chilly as the River Styx. His breath misted in front of his face as he darted to the window and took in the scene before him. Liam was in the backyard, in nothing but his boxers and a sweatshirt, looking wild-eyed as he peered over the fence. Gasping in big puffs of cinnamon-scented air, Killian went over to the coat closet and pulled on a parka and pair of snow boots.

Damn idiot Liam. He couldn't hold his liquor for shit. Twirling a scarf around his neck, Killian darted out the back door. The sharp coldness had him hissing, and it seeped through his boots and into his feet as he stepped into the snow. There was more of the cold stuff than there had been the night before, and his bloody dumbfuck of a brother was out in it, barefoot like a true fucktard.

"What has gotten into you?" Killian demanded as he chased after his older brother, who was trying his best to hop the eight foot privacy fence bordering the property. He had his big hands curled around the top of the railing, his feet dangling comically above the ground.

"I told you your house was fucking haunted!" he shouted as his fingers finally gave out. Liam sat in the snow for a minute before shakily getting to his feet. His teeth were shattering with more than just the cold. Killian could only gape in shock as Liam turned those crazy eyes on him.

"There was a woman in my room tonight," Liam huffed in a hoarse voice. "She came out of the closet. The fucking _closet_, Killian. I started to shout at her, and she disappeared through a fucking wall. I saw her go through the kitchen and I followed her out here, where she walked clear through the fence."

A witty retort was on the tip of his tongue, it really was, but Liam's eyes promised violence, and Killian was too shaky on his feet to withstand even the weakest of slaps. So he just stood there, blinking against the grey, misting dawn, shivering in the cold air as Liam stalked back into the house. He gave his brother the count of five before following him into the house.

The cinnamon-vanilla fragrance that greeted him had a burnt undertone it never had before.

* * *

><p>Liam spent the rest of his stay in a hotel, and Killian's home had never felt bleaker. It was cold, as usual, and a whole set dishes broke without ever leaving the cabinet. He opened the cupboard one morning and an avalanche of ceramic shards poured down onto the cabinet. The lightbulb in the Ikea lamp sparked, fucking <em>sparked<em>, when it went out. Worst of all, he was exhausted to the point of moodiness. Everything set him off. Christmas lights, snowmen, _Days of our Lives_, they all infuriated him.

For the first time, Killian entertained the notion that he didn't live alone.

Christmas came and went with barely a whimper, and Liam went back to Glasgow and his ship. Killian spent long hours in the kitchen of a friend's restaurant, preparing recipes for _Modern Epicurean's_ blog to keep from going home. Whoever his roommate was, they were feeling particularly gloomy. Having grown up with Liam's shouting, he knew the man was more than terrifying when he wanted to be, so he couldn't blame his spectral roommate for being gloomy.

He could blame her for the extra coffee he'd been drinking. Nothing but a direct injection of caffeine seemed to perk him up anymore. He'd nodded off three times during meetings this week, always waking to an irate Regina pointing out his laziness

Coming home from the day after Christmas, he decided it was time to address his ghost, and put her in her place.

Good Lord, he was losing his mind.

He stepped into the foyer, his hands full with fresh-cut red roses. Best to make an offering to the ghost. They liked that, right? Pop culture suggested a blood sacrifice, but Liam described a frightened woman, and women liked pretty flowers.

Peering through the darkened foyer, Killian took hesitant steps into the living room. The space was as clean and organized as ever. None of the paintings or photographs were tilted on their wire hangers, no throw pillows had been tossed to the ground. This room was no colder than it should've been. He decided to move onto the kitchen and took slow, creeping steps.

His skin tingled as soon as he passed the threshold into the well-appointed, and his breath was fine fog as he sucked in the scent of burnt cookies. If she was anywhere, she was in here.

"I'm sorry about my brother," he began rather limply, shifting the flowers to one hand as he scratched behind his ear. "He can be a bit of a boor, and he should not have reacted the way he did. He's a grown man, and you've never frightened me. Honestly, he can be a bit of a nervous ninny."

The only response he received was silence. Considering the ghost, if there was a ghost, could make dishes explode, he took this as a good sign and pressed on.

"You and I have lived peacefully for almost a month now, and I'd like to go back to what we had. You can have your space, and I'll have mine."

More silence followed. He was starting to feel a bit ridiculous, standing there with a dozen roses, talking to the darkness.

Roses. Right.

"These are for you," Killian mumbled awkwardly. "I'll put them in water."

A few minutes later, and the roses were steeping a crystal ice bucket he got as a wedding present and never used – one of Milah's cast offs from the divorce. The cabinet he pulled it from contained only intact dishes, and a check of the rest revealed all of the new, and more importantly intact dishes he'd purchased over the past month. All of his mugs had been replaced with white, no-nonsense cups from Williams Sonoma. None of them were broken.

He didn't necessarily feel at peace when he went to bad that night, but he certainly slept more easily than he had all week. When he woke up, there wasn't a cold spot in the house, and the roses were more vibrant than when he'd purchased them.

* * *

><p>On New Year's Eve, he decided against going to the company party, and instead chose to stay home with his ghost. She'd been quiet, but she <em>felt<em> happier. The roses grew even redder on vibrant, green stems. They never wilted or sagged, and even smelled rosier, if that was possible. The cold spots grew smaller and smaller, usually occupying a breadbox-sized pocket. Everything still smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, but the sickly, burnt tang was long gone. Better yet, he had energy again. Not enough to run, but he'd started going on walks again.

He'd even met one of his neighbors. Well, technically two. Mary Margaret lived two houses down from him, and when he met her, she'd had a little baby cradled in her arm (Sophie Nolan, as fair and soft as a down feather). Her husband was the chief of police, and he filed away that information for later use. Perhaps this David could identify the ghost.

Killian hadn't seen them since, not that he could blame the new mother. A blizzard had blown in, locking everyone in their homes. Hence his decision to stay home instead of driving to Boston. He doubted even Regina would attend.

But that didn't mean he'd be idle that night. He had a full menu planned, portioned for a pleasant dinner alone. Oven-roasted tomato soup, lamp chops and roasted fingerling potatoes, and clementine cake made with almond flour. Simple, home cooking to be enjoyed in front of the television. Yes, his New Year's Eve date was Netflix, and there was nothing wrong with that, in his eyes.

"Okay, ghost of mine," Killian joked as he set the tray on the coffee table before sitting on his cookie-scented couch. He sunk into the soft grey fabric and wiggled until he felt comfortable. "Our choices for movies are _Moonrise Kingdom, Tucker and Dale vs. Evil_, and if you're that desperate for a Christmas movie, _Die Hard_."

His personal choice was _Die Hard_, but it always was. He'd give her to the count of ten, and then he'd carve up his lamb while Bruce Willis carved up –

"I'd like to watch _Moonrise Kingdom_, if it's all right with you."

Killian froze, his knife and fork stuck halfway between the napkin and his plate. The voice was sweet and much stronger than he expected, considering he hadn't expected a response at all. Part of him still viewed the whole thing as a joke, and if he turned around and there was something there, the joke would be over.

And then were would he be?

"It's just that I really like Wes Anderson movies."

The voice was closer now, the room was colder, and the smell of vanilla and cinnamon was more pronounced than ever.

"My favorite is _The Royal Tennenbaums_. But if you want to watch _Die Hard_ or that other movie, I understand."

And then she stood before him, having magically appeared on the other side of the coffee table while he blinked. She didn't look very ghostly, he thought to himself as he scanned her from head to toe. She wasn't shrouded in black or white like the ghosts he saw in the movies, nor was she rotted. Were it not for the smoky, wispy quality to her fingers and toes, he'd swear she was solid. If anything, she looked like a supermodel, with her long limbs and silky blonde hair. Her edges were soft and undefined, but other than, she could've walked off the street.

"You're Killian," she said when he didn't respond. "I don't know anything about myself, but I'm happy to finally meet you."

Still motionless and petrified, Killian could only stare at her, mouth hanging open as his ghost looked at him with pity. She probably thought he was an idiot. Killian could only think of two things.

That she was very beautiful, and very dead.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

Merry Christmas, readers! Fear not - I have not abandoned my other stories. This story hit me all at once after I spoke with one of my reviewers (the author this story is dedicated to). It was originally going to be a Christmas story, but it eventually turned into something else.

I know it seems bleak, but don't worry. The plot doesn't end here. There'll be three to seven more chapters (seven if I decide to do two chapters per season). You'll just have to hang around to see where I go with this.

Happy New Year!


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